laugardagur, febrúar 18, 2006

að vorinu

When in the spring I round that corner where the tiny white petals drift down about me, I admire the slender white birch rising through the gnarled black branches of the cherry tree, and I look around warily in case a fox should suddenly drop into sight, brandishing a curved sword, or a band of Ronin come into view, leaning against their horses.

This time, it was only the fellow with the graying beard sitting on a milkcrate, the head of his chihuahua poking out of the neck of his motorcycle jacket.

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